Walk Among Ghosts, It's All We Have
by LodestarJumper
Summary: [ENDGAME SPOILERS!] Things had changed since Peter was last on the Benatar. It was his ship, but it wasn't his. Nor, he realized slowly, was his team. (No slash, no smut!)


**Author's Note: Hello, my lovelies! :) Welcome to part #4 of this series! If you don't want to read the stuff before this, no worries, it's mostly self explanatory from this point. If you ARE curious, look on my profile beneath the series "Beheading Didn't Solve Much." Thanks! You're all amazing, I hope you enjoy! **

**Summ****ary: Things had changed since Peter was last on the Benatar. It was his ship, but it wasn't his. Nor, he realized slowly, was his team.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! **

**Warnings: Some gore, panic attacks, brief mention of suicidal thoughts, PTSD, self-hate, and paranoia on my part. **

**Pairings: Peter Quill/Gamora**

**NOTE 2*: This fic is technically an add-on to my Endgame fix-it "Withering Away" and "My Blood Meant Nothing To You, Did It?", but you DON'T need to read it to understand, basically, what's happening. **

**For your information, this story is cross-posted on Archive Of Our Own under the pen name of "Galaxy Threads".**

**Just a personal note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)**

* * *

_"Communication has never been our family's forte." _

_-_Thor: Ragnarok

* * *

Walk Among Ghosts, It's All We Have

He's always been a loner, he guesses, and it was really nice to change that.

Peter hadn't really had a family before. Not like a _family-family. _He didn't have any siblings, didn't have any friends because a majority of his time on Earth was spent in the hospital with his mom as she died. The Ravagers threatened to eat him more than once, so that was out; just...Peter never really _connected _with anyone before. Not until the Guardians. It took some time for them to settle, but they _did, _and it was one of the most marvelous things he'd ever experienced in his life. They were happy. Always fighting and banter so sharp it could cut like a knife, but they were happy.

And then they picked up that SOS call, Thor smashed into the window, barring the bad news of Thanos, and everything went downhill from there.

Because this was his family.

And Thanos stole it.

000o000

He's been alive (again) for about a week and a half when Rocket explains to him what they're doing and Peter immediately jumps at coming. Should he have been this enthusiastic? Probably not. Is he going to throw Rocket over the edge in exchange for Gamora? No. Nebula? Yes.

Hopefully it won't come down to that, but given their luck with Infinity Stones, Peter kind of has his doubts. Just small ones, that are actually very large and he's pretending they're not for the sake of his sanity. He's mostly been staying at Avengers Tower (because of course Stark is rich enough to own a freakin' tower), and the first time he steps onto the _Benatar _post-death, is...weird.

It's still very obviously the ship that he and the others called home for two years, but it's...not _his _at the same time. More dents. More scratches. More stains. More music. There's a highly sophisticated radio now with an enormous collection of CD's, likely a gift from Stark at some point. Peter can't help but gawk at it for a solid minute, and then sees that his tapes are placed above the radio as if it was a prized possession.

It's kind of warming, a little creepy.

Peter says nothing.

He doesn't say anything as Rocket and Nebula pilot the ship to Vorimir, watching the two of them silently communicate with an ease he and Rocket never quite achieved in co-piloting. On his left is Dr. Banner and Captain Marvel, in a soft discussion about something Peter can't place, nor cares to.

It's still too quiet. The _Benatar _has always been loud before. Ranging from the fighting, something breaking, the laughter, pounding, or dozens of other things, it was rarely this quiet.

They arrive on Vorimir, track up the long mountain and then stand on the edge as Red-Face says their names and explains his purpose. Peter stares over the edge as he talks and can't help the nauseated feeling that washes through him. Gamora fell from that. She _died_ here, five years ago. (She hasn't died yet, it's three years in the future).

And Peter was running around almost shooting sixteen-year-olds and arguing with a wizard and a billionaire.

"W-we're not here to trade for the Stone." Dr. Banner says at last, once Red-Face has finally stopped talking, and Peter turns to look away from the edge to stare at the wispy guardian. If he's surprised, it doesn't show. Rocket shifts uneasily to his left as the silence persists, and Peter can't help as his hand strays towards his gun.

"We're here to return the Stone." Dr. Banner explains. "We want to trade it for people that we've lost. Two."

Red-Face stares at Dr. Banner for a long moment, as if critically analyzing his words. "Have you the Stone with you now?"

Captain Marvel nods, pulling the encased orange object from a pocket on her long coat and lifting it out. "We do." Her tone is steady, almost challenging him to disagree with her, though Peter doesn't see the point to that.

Red-Face glides towards the captain and lifts out a hand to take the Stone from her grip. "I warn you that the cost for bargaining a soul's return is great, and I cannot be blamed for the consequences. It would be a better mercy to leave them at peace inside the Stone."

But if they do that, everyone dies when Thanos destroys the Stones.

_Dead-dead. _Not like them. Not like the dubbed Vanished. The people inside the Stone don't come back, and Peter doesn't know if he can handle that.

"Yeah, cool." Peter agrees, plastering a smile onto his face. Red-Face turns to him, and Peter swallows his unease. "But if we weren't willing to take risks, why do you think we'd be here? What needs to happen, Mr. Reaper?"

Rocket not so subtly kicks his foot, but Peter ignores it in favor of holding Red-Face's stare.

"Who do you bargain for?" Red-Face questions. His tone is flat.

"Natalia Romanova and Gamora, the daughter of Thanos." Dr. Banner answers. He's quiet. As if speaking too loudly will anger Red-Face and prevent him from agreeing to help them. Maybe Peter should be more worried about that, too. (He's not.)

Red-Face inclines his head, wrapping his hand around the Soul Stone completely. "It shall be done. Returning a soul is not an easy task. One of you will need to be bound to each returned soul. It is your debt to the Stone. Your life will be linked from this point forward. If one of you dies, the other will follow. It will be a bond like none other, and I warn you not to take it lightly. Who among you will shoulder it?"

There's a brief hesitation of just a second as they all process the words. Bound for life? Shared death? Would that...what…what would happen if—

_I love you more than anything. _

Peter immediately steps forward, beating Nebula by half a second. "I'll take Gamora's." He says, his tongue weighted with the words. "I'll do the soul-binding or whatever it is. It won't be a burden to share that."

Not with Gamora.

Red-Face nods, and Dr. Banner steps forward as well. "And I'll take Natalia's."

"So be it." Red-Face says darkly, and lifts up the Stone. "Carrier of Natalia, step forward." Dr. Banner does so, looking less than confident. Peter stands his ground, though he can feel all the other eyes on their backs. Red-Face stares at Dr. Banner's face, gaze hard. "The fall that ended Natalia's life will now dictate the beginning of her new one. You must choose an injury she sustained within the break to be permanent, or else-wise give your own so she'll be whole."

Nebula steps forward and grabs Dr. Banner's arm. "If you even _think _about giving your life for hers, you will regret it. She and the other Avengers need you. Don't get yourself killed. Romanov wouldn't want that. We don't need any more stupid self sacrifices."

"But I—"

"_No." _

"Nebula—"

"_No." _

Dr. Banner sighs, visibly straining before he looks back at Red-Face. "What injuries do I have to choose from?"

Red-Face waves a hand. There isn't really an indication of what it _was, _but Dr. Banner's face pales as he stares forward at nothing, hands fisted. Maybe it's some sort of mental thing? Maybe he has to watch the fall? Peter sincerely hopes not. He doesn't need any more reasons to burn Thanos's corpse.

Dr. Banner dithers for almost two minutes before finally settling on Romanov's sight. Red-Face mutters something and then directs Dr. Banner to go collect the fallen warrior as a loud, piercing cry of pain ripples up through the air. It's the kind of noise someone makes when their toes are being severed from their body and then fed to them.

Peter leans towards the edge and spots a figure moving on the bottom.

Romanov.

Dr. Banner looks fully prepared to leap off the edge to meet her, but Captain Marvel grabs his arm and hauls him away. "We'll meet you at the bottom." She says, and Peter gives a half nod, watching them quickly walk off, listening to the piercing cry as it cuts of abruptly.

Taking her _sight _made her wail in agony. Was that the worst injury available, or the least?

Peter can't do that to Gamora.

If Red-Face is phased by the screaming, he says nothing. Instead, he turns to Peter. "Carrier of Gamora, step forward." Peter's stomach churns, but he forces himself not to look back at Rocket and Nebula first, taking the needed step.

"The weight of your choice the daughter of Thanos will carry her entire life." Red-Face warns, and Peter clenches his fists tightly. He'll just choose not-stupidly, then. He can do that for Gamora. He's not stupid. "Choose wisely."

Peter's vision blurs, fuzzing over despite his attempts to blink it away and his body aches with phantom pains. Not from the scar on his chest where Ego pierced him through like it does sometimes, but in places he knows he shouldn't ache. His legs, his head, eyes, spine...these are Gamora's. Did she feel all of this when she died? Was the death instant, or did she have to suffer?

He can't believe someone would submit their _child _to this.

Thanos deserved worse than Thor beheading him and being withered out of existence. He deserved so much worse.

Peter forces himself to focus. He...he's supposed to pick one of these to be _permanent? _How do you even _have _a permanent broken bone? Gamora broke both her legs, and her left shoulder. Her skull is fractured. If...there's no way that Romanov's sight could have been damaged from just the fall. Dr. Banner...must have chosen the head would be permanent.

Does permanent mean that they don't magically heal it away? Does it mean that they're crippled?

How is he supposed to _know?_

Peter grits his teeth. He'd take his chances with the head wound, but he can't submit Gamora to a life of darkness. She _needs _her sight. Gamora hates the dark. It reminds her too much of Thanos's ships, and he won't...let her go through that. He's not letting Thanos have the last laugh. Not letting him have any more power than what he had.

Somehow he just _knows _that if he picks one of the broken bones, they'll have to sever the limb. They can't keep a limb permanently broken. They'd have to take it. But if he—no. No, he shouldn't. But, it—

She broke a part of her back in the fall. Paralysis they can handle. Nebula's paralyzed from the waist down without her machine parts and she's fine, isn't she? They can fix that. Gamora can keep all her body parts, and not have to be trapped in a world of eternal darkness.

Resolve settled, he opens his mouth to answer, but the aches and bruises fade away like someone snapping their fingers. It's over just as quickly as it started. He presses his lips together and blinks until his vision focus's, and then he hears Gamora let out a piercing wail. His stomach drops to his feet. He hasn't heard her make a _noise _like that before.

Oh, he chose wrong, didn't he?

_Oh, Kriffen, you aren't capable of one good decision, Quill? _

Peter inhales deeply, sharply, and whirls to face Rocket and Nebula, but the two of them are already heading for the base of the mountain. Peter looks back at Red-Face, wondering if he should say something, and then deciding he doesn't care. He takes off after his teammate and the Luphomoid.

When they reach the bloodstained alter, Captain Marvel is already kneeling in front of Gamora, talking to her quietly. There's a gentleness in her stance that Peter hasn't seen before, and it speaks of experience and sympathy. As she sees them, she nods.

His stomach squirms. The last time he saw Gamora she begged him to kill her. The last time he saw her, he _failed _to kill her. If he had killed her, none of this would have happened (but she'd be dead and gone permanently). He inhales through his teeth and watches her release a few gasping sobs of pain.

Behind her, Romanov is being clutched in Dr. Banner's arms in a desperate embrace. It's nothing intimate. It doesn't indicate that they're lovers, and Peter knows they aren't. The Avengers team is a weird bond of siblings, like the Guardians. Like _most _of them.

He moves forward, anxious, but relieved.

"Gamora?" his voice is so soft, it barely breaks air.

She looks up at him. Wide eyes are rimmed with tears. Peter's heart gives out to her, and he tumbles to his knees beside the woman, unable to speak. Gamora falls towards him and he catches her weight easily, holding her close to his chest.

"P-peter." Gamora gasps, somehow managing to make herself smaller.

"I'm here," Peter promises, pressing a kiss on the top of her head. "I'm here. It's okay. Take in some breaths. It's all over now."

"W-w-where's…" Gamora's voice is barely coherent through her tears. "W-where's my sister? Ne-Nebula? The-The o-others?"

Nebula squats down in front of Gamora as Rocket rests a hand on her back. The two sisters lock eyes for a moment before a new sob bubbles up through Gamora's throat. Nebula reaches forward and takes Gamora's hand in her robotic one. "I am alive and well, sister. As you intended." She promises. Her voice holds no room for argument. Gamora doesn't shift in his arms.

"And I'm sure you'll be disappointed to know that the rest of us are alive, too." Rocket assures. "Everyone's waiting back on Terra."

"I w-want to see them." Gamora whispers. "P-p-please."

Peter and Rocket share a look. He doesn't know if that would be the best idea yet. He doesn't even know what the extent of damage that he did to her was. Is Gamora even aware that he may have taken away her ability to walk because he's an idiot?

Nebula squeezes Gamora's hand. "It shall be done. Can you walk?"

Gamora shakes her head. Peter grips her tighter for a moment, as if holding her close enough will stop what he did. What he _caused. _How could he have thought that this was helping? How could he have thought it was a good idea to _paralyze _the woman that he loves?

"'T's okay," Peter promises, "I'll carry you, alright?"

Gamora nods again, which is more a show of her panic and misery than any vocal confirmation would have been. Gamora is fiercely independent. Stating that she needs help isn't something that happens often. Or ever. _What did he do?_

_What was he thinking? _

After making sure that she's supported, Peter gently gets up to his feet, Gamora gathered in his arms. She grips Nebula's hand tighter, and Peter pauses to let her either settle or ask whatever question she needs an answer to. "T-Thanos?" Gamora murmurs.

Nebula's expression hardens. "Dead. We're safe now, sister."

Gamora slumps in his arms and nods, releasing her sister. Somehow, despite the fact that they got her back, the fact that they've already returned the other Stones and everything _should _be uphill from here, he can't quell the deep hole of apprehension that has opened in his gut.

_This is only the beginning._

_But the beginning of what?_

000o000

Once they're back in 2023, the awkward, if heartfelt reunion completed and Gamora put to bed, Nebula slams a stack of papers in front of him. Peter's been trying admirably to drown the guilt with Stark's meager alcohol supply and startles at it more than he cares to admit. It might also have to do with the fact that he's been avoiding Nebula as much as physically possible post snap, her attention really isn't welcomed.

"Is this some sort of joke?" Nebula demands, hand still on the clean paper. Peter's grip on the glass tightens for a second before he forces his slurring mind to stay present. He looks up at the Luphomoid, but her face blurs. He's pretty sure she's scowling. She's always scowling, so it's a safe bet.

Good heavens, is she afraid of smiling wrinkles or something?

"Whhhaaaa?" Peter slurs and tries to focus on the papers, but fails.

Nebula makes a disgusted noise and grabs the glass from his grip with ease. It's humiliating, but Peter's not exactly in a state to be fighting her. "You're drunk." She states flatly.

"Pr'bly." Peter admits, "Didn'—didn' mean to...to...are you wearing _gray? _I thought you only knew about purple or, like, really dark black or somethin'."

Nebula waves off the comment and lifts up the papers, fist clenched tightly enough that Peter's half afraid that she's going to hit him with it. "This is a report of Gamora's medical scan that FRIDAY took. Paralyzed. From the waist down. What on earth were you _thinking, _you idiot? This was the best option out of everything else?"

Peter's stomach churns.

He thinks he might be sick, and it's not from alcohol poisoning. Man, he hates being drunk. The Ravagers were _always _drunk when he was younger and he'd received more than a few bruises than he cares to admit because of it. Age didn't matter to them. The fact that their captain was semi-fond of him didn't matter.

This definitely seemed like a better idea at the time. Gamora. Nebula. Focus on them. Just—_focus. _What on earth is that? It's big. And opens to the world beyond without a problem. Wow. It's like... (A window, Quill, it's a window, _shut up.) _

"I-I thought…" Peter starts, trying his best not to slur. It doesn't work. "I _thoughtest—_"

"Gamora will never walk again." Nebula's jaw is tight. "My sister and I spent eighteen _years _captive of Thanos together, and she never sustained a life-changing injury. I took them for her. And when I finally get her back, _you _take her legs. Not my father. Not an enemy. The man she loves more than anything_._"

The glass she took from him shatters, vodka spilling all over the ground and glass raining on top of it. His eyes widen slightly and he stares at it for a long few seconds before lifting his gaze up to Nebula. "Every...thin' else was worse." He promises.

His voice is too desperate.

It's obvious that he's trying to convince himself, not her.

"I had to." He insists.

Nebula scoffs, shaking her head and flexes her tight fist. Instead of hitting him like he half expects her to, she only slams the papers against his head and storms off. Peter takes the papers with trembling fingers and tries to focus on them. The words keep blurring together, the euphoric bliss of the alcohol insisting that it can wait.

But it can't, because this is Gamora. _Gamora. _His best friend. His.

It takes time, so much time, to focus enough to see the words and even longer to decipher a meaning. He's well past exhausted when he finishes reading them. When he finally finishes seeing how much worse he made things. Nebula was right. Peter thought it would be a simple fix to get her on her feet again, but it won't be. If she ever _gets _to her feet again.

He did that.

He condemned her to this. Thanos may have killed her, but he's starting to suspect what he did was worse. _The weight of your choice the daughter of Thanos will carry her entire life, _Red-Face had warned. Peter didn't take that as seriously as he should have.

Rocket finds him sobbing on the couch later, clutching the papers up to his stomach like some sort of sorry blanket. The raccoon says something that Peter doesn't understand and tries to take the papers from him, but Peter doesn't let his grip give.

Rocket leaves, and returns later with Mantis, Drax, and Groot somewhere behind. Peter doesn't listen to any of them, holding the papers against his chest. He doesn't know why. It's not helping anything to have them, but he can't stop holding them.

A hand touches his forehead, fingers lightly brushing through his hair.

_Sleep. _

Peter sleeps.

It's the beginning of the end.

000o000

Peter has a hangover the next morning, but remembers far much more of the night than he cares to say. Rocket is there with some sort of drug to help the headache and a glass of water. Peter stares at him miserably, hidden beneath a thick blanket.

The papers are gone. (Were they ever _real?) _

"I'm sorry." He mutters. "About Gamora."

Rocket says nothing, holding out the water and drug-thing to him. How does Terra have something to help hangovers, but the rest of the universe doesn't? Terra is..._Terra. _For a while they were pretty convinced that other galaxies didn't exist. Until, like, not that long ago, actually. They are so behind technologically, but they have something to help hangovers.

Of course they do.

Peter doesn't reach for the water. Rocket sighs and rolls his eyes, jabbing Peter with the pill bottle in the side. "Quill. Honestly. You aren't going to be of any help if you don't get up right now. Stop moping. Brooding. Whatever it is you're doing."

Peter buries his head into the couch cushion, moaning loudly. Ow. Terrible idea.

When he comes up for air, Rocket is still there. Kriff, where in the universe did he learn this much patience? The Rocket he knew would have thrown the pills at his face by this point and stormed off insisting that Peter can deal with his own problems. (Or stolen half their ship to go help some random Pirate-Asgardian build and axe).

"I paralyzed her, fuzz-brain." Peter mumbles. "I should have just gone with sight or something."

"I'm not angry." Rocket promises. "But I am annoyed. Will you just take the stupid pills?"

Peter hesitates a moment longer. The headache almost seems like penance for what he did, a small smudge of the pain he's going to put Gamora through. Rocket's stare grows harder and Peter sighs deeply, reaching forward.

He takes the pills.

000o000

He and everyone else is there when Gamora wakes up again. In an uncharacteristic show of affection Peter honestly didn't think Nebula capable of, the first thing that she does when Gamora pulls herself upright is to draw her into an embrace.

Peter thinks of Nebula trying to kill Gamora. Of Nebula's insistence during that mess with Ego that she was going to kill Gamora and how coldly Gamora took it. He stares at the two of them and wonders when on Terra everything changed. If it ever did.

Does he trust Nebula? Absolutely not.

Does Gamora? Rocket? Apparently.

"You should have left me for dead." Nebula says firmly. Her voice holds no room for argument; Gamora offers a little laugh anyway. Her face is stretched with pain. They draw apart and Gamora holds her sister's shoulders.

"I've already done that before. Not again. Never again." Gamora says firmly.

"I am Groot?" Groot questions, and Gamora visibly perks, turning to look for him. The others take this as an invitation and move forward to greet her properly this time. Peter doesn't shift from his position near the doorway, feet rooted in the spot as he watches the other Guardians reunite. He can't get himself to _go. _

He's all too aware how all movement stops below Gamora's waist, how the corners around her eyes tighten when she turns to fast. He thinks of how easily she was moving a few days (years) ago and his stomach clenches. This is his fault.

Surly Romanov isn't having this many problems adjusting.

She can still _walk._

Drax grabs his arm and hauls him forward despite Peter's protests. He's thrown in front of Gamora without much restraint and nearly topples to his knees. Is Drax even aware of how strong he is? He must be able to rip up a freakin' tree from the ground without a problem.

"Was that really necessary!?" Peter demands, sending a scowl in Drax's direction.

The warrior offers a faint smile. "Certainly."

Peter makes a face and turns back to Gamora. She doesn't yell at him. Doesn't scream. Doesn't even punch him, like he deserves. Instead, she smiles. There's no restraint in her face, only relief and fondness and Peter feels something in him untangle at the sight.

"Hey."

"Peter." Gamora reaches for his hand and pulls him towards her.

They kiss.

Sweet, short, and simple, but it's the best kiss he's ever had.

000o000

At first, it starts out slow. Just little things, like the _Benetar's _different scratches or decorations_. _Things that indicate that they've spent a long time apart. Five years. Peter really didn't realize how long that was until these things keep _happening._

Rocket and Nebula are close. Much closer than Peter suspected on a first glance. They insult and yell at each other mercilessly, but there's an unspeakable bond between both of them. It's very _there. _Impossible to deny, and Peter doesn't know if he can. Or should. He kind of wants to, but that would be both stupid and jerk-like, and he's trying not to do that.

He thinks.

Rocket has a scar on his ear that Peter doesn't remember. It's faint, but it's there.

It's...it's just like there's this huge _gap. _Like despite the fact that only two of them didn't die, that they were split in half and something stuffed between the two pieces. Peter doesn't even know what should be there instead of what is, but it's just so frustrating that they can't _click _like they used to anymore.

He might be imagining things. He's probably imagining things.

(He's not imagining anything.)

000o000

They've been on Terra for a week, Gamora somewhat adjusted to the wheelchair and all of them trying to get used to seeing her there and helping, when Nebula presents the idea forward. Gamora is asleep and no one really felt like waking her up for dinner, so they're gathered in the kitchen of the apartment that Stark let them use, quietly eating take-out pizza.

It's quiet.

It's _always _quiet now.

It's part of the problem, and Peter feels so hypocritical for wishing for silence on the _Benatar _a few weeks (years) ago.

"Implantation." Nebula says suddenly, and all of them stop, turning to look at her. Peter's kind of come to the conclusion that Nebula is terrible at bringing up her ideas so just breaks it into the air and hope it doesn't cause a disaster. For someone who was raised by Thanos, a master manipulator, Peter kind of thought she'd have better social skills.

Nope.

"I am Groot?" Groot questions.

Peter takes a bite of the soggy pizza. He's not hungry. He hasn't been hungry since Vorimir. "Yeah, I'm with Groot. I mean, as far as conversation topics go, it's not _horrible, _but, like, why?" Peter questions. Nebula turns a piercing glare towards his face and Peter sees Rocket not so subtly kick Nebula under the table. Yeah. Nebula and Rocket may have had five years together, but this was (is—_is) _his family, and, like—he's not _stupid. _He was trained as a thief. Thieves need to be aware of the small moves that people make.

Like kicking under the table.

Nebula nonetheless smooths her expression some, "Implantation. For Gamora's spine. If we could find a way to build a part that would act where her spinal cord cannot, then she might be able to walk again."

The words sit heavy in the air.

Peter...doesn't know what he thinks of them.

Surprisingly, it isn't Peter or Rocket who act as the pessimistic. It's Drax. "What would the downsides of such 'implantation' be?" his voice is heavy. He's stopped eating to stare at Nebula. The humor that usually shades his eyes is gone, replaced hard lines. He looks _angry. _

Nebula hesitates. "There is the possibility it could make it worse. Permanently destroy what is left and all feeling she already has. Possibly kill her. Also...it could leave her permanently in pain, it could...I...the risks are great, but we need to do _something." _

Peter only stares at her. "Are you _insane? _We don't even know if this would work and what would happen if it _doesn't _could kill her? That makes no sense. Why would we try something that we don't even know would help?"

"Because we don't have any other solutions!" Nebula says harshly, slamming her hands on the tabletop. "Gamora can't live the rest of her life like this, Quill!"

Peter flinches.

_The weight of your choice the daughter of Thanos will carry her entire life._

"No." Peter says firmly. "Don't bring this up to her. No one says _anything. _Until we have a solution that we're more than twelve percent sure will work, we're not doing it." (Until they know it won't make it worse. Until there isn't the possibility it could kill her.)

"I am Groot—" Groot starts to protest, but Peter lifts up a hand, finger pointed.

"No. Stop. Shut up. I'm serious. We're not going to do this." Peter says firmly. Angrily. "I'm not going to let you kill her on a stupid decision made by someone who can't even feel pain." Oh. Oops. Probably shouldn't have said that one. It just slipped out. Why can't he have social skills beyond that of a blaster?

Nebula's jaw sets and she gets to her feet, looking fully prepared to start a fight. Her mouth opens, and Peter has half a second to think _well, that was stupid, _before Mantis jumps up. "Please do not fight!" she pleads. "There is no need to do so after a disagreement."

She sounds like she's about to cry. Kriff, Peter wishes he had her innocence. This isn't anything to weep over. Not _yet, _anyway.

"Nebula is in the right." Drax mutters. It lacks his usual enthusiasm for watching a brawl. Drax never sighs away from encouraging violence. It seems to be the solution to him for every problem. (No, it's not. Don't do that).

Peter draws aback, teeth snapping together.

Drax is supposed to take _his _side. Not _Nebula's. _

Peter swears under his breath and gets to his feet. His feels strangely dizzy. He doesn't think he's breathing. "Are you serious?" Peter demands, looking to Drax for confirmation. He doesn't actually want it, and doesn't wait for the man to say so.

"Quill, don't be stupid—" Rocket starts, and Peter laughs loudly. It sounds scratchy and bitter.

"I'm an idiot. We all know I'm an idiot. But trust me on this: Making things worse for Gamora when we're trying to help won't solve anything." Peter storms off before anyone can formulate a response and throws himself onto his borrowed bed and screams into his pillow in frustration.

Things were a lot easier before they picked up that SOS call. Should have just left Asgard for dead. Would've solved a lot of problems.

(_They couldn't have run from Thanos forever. Peter knows this. The fact they had a warning was a mercy.) _

000o000

The Avengers are not a functional team at the moment. Not really. About half of them are seriously injured and the other half are trying to adjust from post-death and not quite ready to face the world. Something about pardons and prison? Peter doesn't know. No one was very clear about that.

Anyway. Since they're not a functional team, when FRIDAY reports in about a group of New Yorker's protesting the existence of enhanced and trying to purge the city of them by burning it down to the ground, it's their job to clean it up.

Not the Avengers, whom it would normally fall to.

The Guardians. Yay them. Peter loves dealing with arsonists.

It's barely been twelve hours since the disastrous dinner, but they all gather like this is a normal fight. Peter knows it's not. He can see it in the way that Rocket's shoulders are too stiff, how Drax keeps staring forward at nothing, when Mantis _takes a weapon, _and how Groot isn't playing any type of hand-held device game.

And then there's the elephant in the room that is Nebula.

Peter doesn't hate her. He doesn't. He just...wishes he'd had more time to adjust to her. She's stuffing her way into the family Peter built and he hates that. He wants her to go away, and he feels hopelessly child-like because of this. (He is. It's stupid. He's in his thirties, not five).

When they pull up on the scene, Peter stares at the fires slowly building in size, the people running around screaming, the police shouting and feels strangely at peace. This is familiar. They've done stuff like this dozens of times before. It will be simple. He knows what to do about this. He's clueless about Gamora, but he knows what to do about fire.

They left Gamora at the Tower. They said it was to keep her safe. Everyone knows that it's because they don't know what Gamora can _do _without being able to move quickly. Like, honestly, he knows she's embarrassed and frustrated by that fact, but they just...he doesn't know. They aren't…

_Focus._

_Fire, remember? _

From the inside of their borrowed Quinjet, Peter turns to glance at his team. "Okay, ninnies, let's get this mess cleaned up." Peter says and spins his blaster. He stares at the ground for a long second, analyzing everything before coming up with half-ideas and squishing them together. "Here's the plan: Rocket you stay up here as aerial defense and see if you can pick out the strays. Drax, Mantis, you guys work on rescue, me, Groot and—" Peter hesitates on the word and he shouldn't, but he does "—Nebula will work on rounding these guys up. Any questions?"

Drax raises his hand. "Did we bring the devices for jumping?"

Uh? Peter blinks, confused. "The—do you mean a parachute?"

"Yes." Drax confirms. "Did we bring these parachutes?"

"Well, no, I don't think so, but Rocket was—" Peter starts, and has to cut himself off to dive out of the way as Drax barrels past him, leaping off of the landing pad with a loud yell of excitement. Peter's teeth set as worry churns in his stomach, but he doesn't need to worry. Drax catches himself with his daggers on the edge of a building and continues to the ground without any problems.

"How is there so much muscle attached, but no brain?" Rocket questions from the front, "I mean, _honestly."_

"Probably 'cause he makes a frequent habit of leaping from tall heights." Peter grumbles and presses two fingers behind his ear to fold his mask over his face. Kriff, his team is going to get themselves killed one of these days by these tendencies. It's no wonder that people think they're stupid.

Rocket lowers the Quinjet so they can all hobble out without too much of a fuss and then pulls up to actually do what Peter suggested. It's weird, but not as unusual as it would have been two (seven) years ago.

After Ego, a lot of things changed.

Including following directions.

But that's about where the extent of it goes.

There's a lot more of the dubbed "Purgers" than they were counting on, and soon 22nd is a complete and utter mess. Rocket isn't helping, seeming to have his own warpath to wage and Nebula hardly answers the comm. Mantis keeps yelping at everything even though she's supposed to be helping Drax find people with her empath abilities and Groot is, well, you know, a _tree. _He's flammable, and there's a lot of fire.

And guns.

Lots and lots of guns.

Where does someone even buy this many guns on Terra? Peter can easily see Rocket owning this many guns, but that's because he could build an explosive out of a piece of paper and a used tissue, but like—_Terra? _

Peter really feels like they're making more of a mess than helping, but after some manhandling, a bit of yelling and Nebula finally re-joining him, they manage to group the largest group of the Purgers together. Leaving Groot in charge of keeping them there with Rocket as an assist from the sky, Peter and Nebula go straggler hunting.

And really—it's all going okay, not good, not great, until Peter spots the sniper on the roof.

Because Peter distinctly remembers leaving Gamora in Avengers Tower with instructions to watch from afar until they know better how to have her assist with her disability. He'd recognize that shade of green with purple-highlighted hair anywhere.

Nebula ran off to do...something a few minutes ago, so it's just him, half a dozen Purgers and Gamora on the roof. The latter, who Peter _really _wishes would have stayed at Avengers Tower. The Purgers have guns, and her reflexes really aren't at their peak right now.

Peter fires up his jetpack and pulls up in front of her, tapping against his mask to reveal his face. "What on chubba are you doing here!?" Peter demands, trying to keep his voice level. He's failing. "You could get shot, or killed, or—how did you even _get _here!?"

Gamora fires down at something below and looks up with hard eyes. "I can't just sit back and do nothing!"

"Yes, you can." Peter argues, "Gamora, we can't—"

That's about as far as he gets. It might have been half a syllable more, but he doesn't think so. A stabbing pain shoots up from between his shoulder blades and Peter inhales deeply, sharply, trying to brace himself against the pain, but nothing helps. It's electricity, splitting up his back and across his shoulders. It's everywhere. And no where.

He tumbles.

He—

It—

_He's standing in front of his father, trying to breathe through the compression in his chest, but he can't. His vision is spinning, everything is wet. He can't see. Can't speak. Can't breathe. Can't exist like this. He wants to fall to his knees, but he can't. "...spending the rest of your life as a battery!" _

_Wants to scream, but his voice isn't coming._

_This man killed his mom._

_He gave her a tumor. He could have killed her quickly, could have done it faster so she didn't suffer and he hadn't. He left them starving, poor, and in pain always and, oh, stars, Peter can't breathe through this pain._

_The electricity is stealing his blood._

_He's going to be sick._

_He's going to—_

"_Peter!" _

"_Pet..!"_

Water is poured over his head and Peter gasps, drawing in a sharp breath as he tries to jerk into a sitting position, tries to crawl as far away from Ego has he possibly can because he can't—he can't do that again. Can't live through the pain. Can't scream. He can't breathe.

_Can't. Can't. Can't. _

(Help me.)

Voices are speaking. Voices. That can't be right. All there was was Ego, and his chest hurts. His back is on fire. (Oh, God, please, if you're there, _help me!)_

His limbs are shaking. He's trembling.

Hands wrap around him, pinning him in place and Peter squirms, gasping and trying to heave out air or vomit, maybe both. No, no, no, no—

_No, no, no, no—_

(Help!)

Hands press against his temples. Fingers, really. Two on each side. Four. (Help. Help. Help.)

He won't let Ego do—

_Sleep._

000o000

Peter comes to on the ramp of the Quinjet. He's being propped against Drax's chest, the warrior holding him steady and upright. He's covered in ash and soot from the mission, but still manages to look weirdly inviting. And he's warm. Peter's freezing, but Drax is warm. His brain catches up with his body, and heat immediately rises to his cheeks in embarrassment.

Kriff, he's pathetic.

He thought he was over this. That the months of everything were over. Jumping when someone touched him from behind, or panicking whenever he saw electricity or—just the stupid things that he'd hated effected him, but had anyway. He's not four. He should be over this now.

Peter attempts to pull away from Drax's embrace with his trembling limbs, but the warrior keeps him close. "Peter," his voice is softer than normal. "You do not need to feign bravery. You may rest."

"I have to—things." Peter tries to explain. He can't. He just wants to go lick his wounds in private. (_Because that always solved everything.) _Gosh, everywhere hurts. Like he fell twenty feet onto hard cement, which is what Peter suspects is the case. He has shock absorbents in his clothing, but he knows he'll bruise.

"Peter." Drax intones.

Something about his voice makes Peter stop trying to fight and instead miserably tug his feet up to his chest and allow Drax to hold him. It's weirdly brother-like. Peter never had a brother, but he imagines this is what it would feel like to be wrapped in the embrace of an older one. When all your troubles don't matter anymore.

Keeping his back firmly pressed against something solid helps appease his panicking mind. His hands won't stop trembling, and Drax has to remind him to breathe several times. The Quinjet is sitting in the middle of a broken street. The fires are out, but every so often something will fall and clatter against the ground.

Peter winces, even though he should expect it.

He has no idea where the others are. No idea what happened to Gamora, or who shot him in the first place. Or what he was shot with. Not a bullet. A shot from that angle would have killed him. This was something else.

"Where are the others?" Peter mumbles out after what feels like an eternity of listening to his haggard breaths and Drax's steady ones.

"Finishing the mission." Drax explains calmly. He's steady. Always so freakin' steady. Peter is a mess who only creates disasters that need heavy soap and water for cleaning, but Drax...doesn't.

"Gamora?"

"With Nebula."

Peter mentally winces for her sake. Although she may not be evil or whatever anymore, Nebula isn't exactly a walk in the park anyway. The fact that...that…

"What happened?" Peter asks, keeping his gaze focused on the wall across from them. There's a piece where paint is chipping. Red flaking off all over the seats. Probably not the greatest thing to clean. This isn't the _Benetar, _ergo: it's not his problem.

Drax is quiet for a long moment before he answers, and when he does, his voice is dark. "A fool shot you in the back with a type of electricity-shooting device." A taser? Peter freaked out because of a _taser? "_You fell, and no one was there to catch you. Gamora shot the man and called for aid, but when we arrived you were…"

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. "You can say having a fit. I've heard you guys use the term before." Probably without their intention (one hundred percent without them meaning for him to overhear), but he still did. It stung, but he hadn't said anything. He'd agreed. He's crazy, and not in a good way.

"You were unwell." Drax decides on.

Cute.

"Mantis had to put you to sleep."

Oh. Even better. He panicked so much that they couldn't calm him down. That's one of the few times _that's_ happened.

Silence settles between them.

Just the breathing, and Drax's heart.

_Thump. Thud. Thump. Thud. Thump—_

"Maybe…" Peter starts, his voice barely audible. The thought is half formed in the mess that is the rest of his head, and it doesn't feel quite real. He forces the words out, because he doesn't think he can say them any other way. "Maybe trying the implant wouldn't be so terrible. At least then we'd know when Gamora was with us."

He refuses to blame her for what happened, but he'd had his back to the battlefield because he was talking to her.

Drax is quiet. Whether or not he approves or disagrees with Peter's decision remains a great unknown of the universe. Peter inhales raggedly, squeezes his eyes shut and tries to only focus on Drax's breathing and the heartbeat.

_Thud. Thud. Thud—_

"_...by spending the rest of your life as a battery!" _

Peter doesn't talk to anyone for three days after they get back to the Tower.

No one says anything about his fit. No one mentions how close he was to breaking his neck when he fell. Their concern is obvious in the way Mantis wordlessly helps him sleep, when Rocket keeps handing him food, as Drax offers himself up as a sparring partner, when Gamora sits next to him quietly, and keeps whispering "_I'm sorry". _Even Nebula, when she returns his guns to him. He hadn't realized they were missing, but they were.

No one says a thing about it all, only proclaiming the mission a success to whoever asks. It was, in a way, they accomplished the goal, didn't they? It feels more like they lost something, but Peter doesn't quite know what yet.

"_That's my freakin' father!" _

"_...rest of your life as a battery." _

"_...he wasn't your daddy." _

Nebula brings up the idea of implantation to Gamora on day two of Peter's silence. Gamora takes one look at him, her eyes filled with worry and wide. She bites at her lip heavily and then agrees.

_Good job, Quill, you may have just guilt-tripped your girlfriend to her death. _

000o000

He's playing some sort of game with Groot when Stark pops up to help Rocket with the design of the implant. They vanish with Nebula for hours, and Peter stuffs down the curiosity and focuses on getting his butt kicked by the sentient tree. Groot keeps making a smug faces whenever he beats Peter at the game and Peter's mood sours.

Mantis stops by to join them, but spends most of the game with her forehead creased and looking increasingly like she might self combust out of frustration. How can Groot be better at Speed than them? _How? _Maybe he has some sort of connection with the cards because they were once a tree? Peter doesn't know. It feels like he's cheating, even though he's probably not.

"This game is challenging." Mantis submits after another loss.

"Groot is freakin' cheating." Peter grumbles, throwing down his cards in defeat. "There's no way that a well-toned stick is better at an Earth game than me."

"I am Groot!" Groot scowls and throws the cards at his face. Peter hides a smirk at the indignance in his tone. Some part of his brain takes his moment to point out this is the most relaxed he's been since before they were brought back. He ignores it, because it almost seems _wrong _to be cheerful right now.

Mantis sighs and her lips press together. "I suggest we play a different game. I am good at this game."

Peter groans, but submits.

They play until the door Peter has had half an eye on for the entire afternoon opens and Gamora, supported between Nebula and Stark, hobbles out into the common room. It's not a perfect fix, that much is obvious, but Gamora is on her feet and attempting to move like a normal person.

Peter leaps to his feet, game forgotten, and moves towards them. "Hey," he addresses, unable to come up with anything different. He feels like he should be elated, but none of this really feels...real. Just, like, a dream. "You're up!"

"Yeah." Gamora's gritting her teeth together so tightly Peter can hear it in her voice. "Who knows for how long."

"Probably not longer than a few minutes." Stark assures as he and Nebula guide Gamora towards one of the couches. "We'll get something more permanent in a few days, but the brace should hold for now."

Oh. So, it's not the implant. Just a brace.

Okay.

That's...good. Good, but bad. Good because nothing permanent has happened yet, bad because it still hasn't _happened _yet. When Nebula and Stark ease Gamora onto the couch, she slumps into it fully, face pinched.

"You good?" Stark questions, lifting up his hand—right, he still has that brace-thing on from the snapping and everything and yeah, okay—in some sort of gesture in confirmation.

Gamora nods, looking slightly hazy. "That was harder than I thought it would be."

Peter sucks on his inner gums, trying to swallow the guilt. Nothing helps. Nothing has ever helped. This is his fault. He could have chosen differently. Given Gamora more hope for the future. Could have chosen something that wouldn't constantly remind Gamora that her _father _threw her off a cliff to kill her.

He didn't.

Of course he didn't.

Stark, Banner, a handful of other doctors and Rocket disappear with Gamora a few hours later and when they return, Gamora is hobbling around with braces. The smile of relief on her face eases any tension in his chest. Or doubt. She walks towards him and Peter catches her when she stumbles, a smile of similar euphoria on his face.

"Peter," Gamora's eyes are so _happy, _and it kills him to know that he'd swallowed that when he took her legs from her. "I'm walking."

Hobbling.

Staggering.

But yeah, walking. It's beautiful. He thinks.

000o000

Time has sort of lost meaning to him. Like, he looks up one morning only to realize it's nearly been a month since the second snap. He used to count the days when he was with the Ravagers because he couldn't wait to get out, but, like, this-this has completely thrown him off balance. He doesn't even know what day of the week it is anymore.

Like—maybe Tuesday?

Probably Friday.

He just knows he's going insane sitting here, doing nothing. The Guardians may not have been the most famous team in the galaxy, but they aren't exactly nobodies either. They were offered jobs almost weekly before, so life was rarely without some sort of stimulation or near death experience. (Peter misses helping people, but his pride doesn't want him to admit that, because, hey, image).

So when the call comes in for a small job off the cost of a nearby galaxy, Peter jumps at it. Gamora's doing better(ish), Drax is going stir crazy, Groot and Mantis are in some sort of game-euphoria, Rocket took apart a table a few days ago to build a cannon (no joke), and Nebula vanishes for long hours of the day. Peter has no idea what she's doing, and honestly doesn't want to ask. He's pretty sure she's hunting down her prey to suck their blood.

(She's spending time with the Avengers, Stark specifically, Peter's not ignorant. He's willfully blind sometimes).

"We have to take this mission." Peter insists, "We're all going crazy."

The Guardians stare at him, seeming skeptical. "We're not exactly a well function oil rig right now, Quill." Rocket promises. "I don't know if this is the best idea."

"Come on," Peter's voice is dangerously close to a whine, "it will take a couple of hours at most. We'll be in and out. Just a little boost for our confidence. You know we're going to have to leave eventually, right? So, just...little baby steps."

"How will watching a baby take steps assist us in leaving Terra?" Drax questions, brow furrowing.

"Expression." Peter promises, patting his arm in reassurance. The rest of his team stares at him, gazes hard. Peter's teeth set and he sighs, leaning back in his chair. He's fully prepared for a chorus of "no"s to start, but it doesn't.

"I think it sounds like a good idea." Gamora says at last, and Peter's eyebrows raise with surprise. Out of everyone, he kind of thought she'd be the last to agree. She's usually the least likely to be impulsive among their group.

"I don't." Nebula argues, resting her palms flat against the tabletop. Peter closes his eyes and breathes in slowly to gather his patience together. Nebula never agrees with him. Ever. It's like she's trying to prove something when Peter knows that she's not, but it still kind of feels like that's what's going on.

Like—honestly.

_Honestly._

"I think Quill's right." Rocket says, and Peter peaks his eyes open.

"Are you okay?" he asks the raccoon, because Rocket _never _agrees with him unless someone is about to die. Rocket sends him an annoyed glance and looks across the table again.

"I mean, think about it. We can't stay on Terra forever, Quill's right. I mean, yeah, sure, it's nice here and everything, but it's not home. Home is the _Benetar. _It's, like, not this. I don't know." Rocket sighs and rubs at his forehead. Peter's eyebrows raise with some relief as he realizes that he isn't the only person who's had nostalgia for a few months (years) ago.

"I would like to try." Mantis offers a smile. "What do we have to lose by going?"

"I am Groot." Groot agrees, looking up from his game for half a second to voice his opinion. Peter is getting really tired of this table. It's the ugly type of brown that's like obnoxiously bright with weird darker blotchy spots. It looks like it has chicken pox, then caught some sort of terrible skin rash on top of that.

It's not the _Benetar. _Nothing is the _Benetar. _Gosh, Peter didn't realize how spoiled they were until they picked up that stupid SOS call. The SOS call that killed more than half of them.

Nebula's jaw sets. Apparently she's got a file dedicated to Mantis's question, which, is like, pointless. (Peter. Seriously. _Stop.) _

Gamora rests a hand on her sister's hand. "Nebula. It will be fine. I promise."

Nebula pulls away, rising up to her feet. "We'll see."

000o000

They leave. Stark says that he, his wife, and daughter are moving out of New York in about a week to some sort of cabin-thing (and hey, Stark never struck him as a farmer, but he's not going to question his retirement plans) and that if they need to come back to Earth that Avengers Tower is there best bet to find someone.

They'd nodded, said their goodbyes and then clambered inside of the _Benetar _and headed off.

The first few days are...awkward to say the least. It's hard settling back into past habits because the people that stepped off the ship to go find the Collector and the Aether all those weeks (years) ago died when Thanos snapped. Whoever came back, they just...they're trying really hard to skirt around things they shouldn't. (Like, the whole, hey, I was _dead _at one point thing. Or the dreams. They don't talk about the dreams from the Soul Realm.)

Sometimes Peter barely feels like he knows these people.

Sometimes he wonders if they were anything above strangers before.

He thinks so. He really wishes it was the case. But it just—

Everything smells weird. He hadn't noticed before, too focused on getting Gamora and returning the other Stones to really pay attention, but, like, there's just this _scent. _It's not bad enough to note out loud, but it's still very much _there. _

Things aren't where he remembers them being.

And all his scarfs are missing.

This ship. This family-team, whatever, it's his. But it's not _his. _Not what it once was, and Peter's...trying hard to ignore that. Because everyone knows the best way to deal with things that are hard is to ignore them completely, right?

_Right?_

No. That is not how you deal with problems.

Everyone in this stupid group of misfits needs to learn this, because the lack of communication is going to get someone killed.

000o000

Drax and Mantis get into a massive fight. Peter has no idea what it was about, but everyone hears their voices rumbling and raising like a falling tide. When Peter goes to mediate, they're already storming off and refuse to talk to each other.

Peter's too tired to determine the source, so goes to find Rocket and fight for piloting.

000o000

He doesn't even remember what he was going to find Gamora for. He thinks it was because Rocket said that they're about a standard hour away from their destination, but he's not sure. It's been five days since they left Terra and after picking up some supplies on a nearby outpost, they'd finally started the galaxy jumping.

All of them—except Gamora, because she seems to think she's invisible—are hesitant about letting the ex-assassin run around the battlefield with them. She agreed to do aerial defense, because flying the _Benetar _doesn't require too much footwork.

So yeah. He thinks he was going to tell her that, but it isn't what happens.

When he stands in front of the door, hand poised to knock, he realizes he can hear someone sobbing quietly. It's Gamora. She doesn't cry often and he's gathering himself together to offer emotional support or a few jokes and an awkward shoulder pat, but then he hears the soft intones of Nebula's voice.

And then he _also _realizes he can hear through the door, and he can't get his feet to move because his stomach is filled with apprehensive dread at the words he manages to pick out.

"_—pain. _I can't…" Gamora is gasping. "Nebula please. Just _take _them. It would be a mercy."

"It would not be a mercy." Nebula promises, "Trust me, sister. The pain will pass."

"It never _does!" _Gamora shouts in frustration, and there's the sharp sound of glass breaking. Peter can hear his heartbeat. He doesn't think he's breathing. Gamora is in _pain? _When he asked her about the implant, she'd given him a smile and reassured him she didn't feel anything.

She lies the most when she smiles. Peter forgets that. He'd just—he'd _hoped _so much that he hadn't—_The weight of your choice the daughter of Thanos will carry her entire life. _

There's a heavy beat of silence before Gamora lets out a few more harsh sobs. "There's so much p-pain and it's not _going away. _It—It never goes away, and I can't tell anyone because they already think I'm a cripple, but if-if—How do you _live_ like this?"

"Gamora—" Nebula tries to console.

"Sister, Nebula, I-I wish that Peter had chosen _anything _else. Severed limbs, failing organs—_anything. _I could have lived being blind. I could have _walked. _Kriff, why didn't he just let me stay _d-d-ead—?"_

"Gamora. You don't—"

He doesn't hear the rest of the conversation. He turns on his heal and walks away in the opposite direction as quickly as possible. A weight settles on his shoulders, digging into his stomach and refusing to relent. Gamora hates him because he chose wrong.

There had been dozens of other alternatives, and he chose _this?_

How—_how _could he have thought this was a good idea? That somehow losing her _legs _would be better than being unable to see? Romanov is doing fine. She seems maybe not _happy, _but getting there. Them? They're all waving around false masks and pretending to ignore the enormous holes in the ground they're standing on.

And Peter can't _stand _it anymore.

Not looking where he's going, Peter smashes into Rocket, nearly tripping over him. He manages to catch his balance enough to right himself, but still feels irritation and heat rise to his feet. Rocket dives out of the way with a sharp retort of "watch it!"

Peter's teeth set.

Gamora _hates _him.

Why didn't he let Nebula take the soul-baring job or whatever it was. She would have done better. Peter has a legacy of mistakes to follow him around and a future of disaster to follow.

"Whoa—um, are you okay, Peter?" Rocket questions. His tone actually sounds...concerned, maybe even worried, and Peter snaps. Shatters. Tumbles. Everything he's been reigning in comes spilling out, bathed in an acid he wouldn't have dared to speak with otherwise.

"Oh, _now _you care?" Peter demands, pulling himself up to his feet. "You've made a really good show of acting these last couple of months, yeah, whatever, but we all know that you're just jumping at the chance to one-up someone, or run off with Asgardian-Pirate-Kings."

"Peter, what the heck are you going _on _about!?" Rocket starts, jerking back from him.

"Thor." Peter seethes the word between his teeth.

Rocket's eyes narrow. "I'm sorry, but a guy _smashed _into our ship after getting his people blown up and I kind of didn't think it wasn't—"

"Bull!" Peter snips. "You were running. You're always doing that. Running away because its too hard to stick around."

Rocket's teeth set. "Well at least I didn't cripple someone on our team." Peter flinches, and Rocket releases a deep, obviously calming breath. "Wake up, Quill. Not everything is about you, alright? Shut up and get your head on straight. You're being a muttonhead."

Rocket storms off and Peter seethes, smashing his fist against the wall hard enough that his knuckle burns. He swears under his breath, regret eating at him. _Idiot, idiot, idiot. You didn't need to say or MEAN any of that. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot._

Peter swears again, slamming his fist into the wall harder. His team is coming apart. His family. Everything. Is. Coming. Apart.

_I didn't cripple someone on our team._

_The weight of your choice the daughter of Thanos will carry for the rest of her life._

Nebula takes his position as co-pilot for the rest of the journey.

000o000

Tensions are still high when they arrive on the planet, a small little world called Hepti with a population of weird purple looking skeleton-look-alikes. The job was supposed to be really simple. That's why they chose it, because they can do the easy things. Right?

Wrong.

The Heptites—in the midst of their civil war—are trying to load up crates of precious jewels for trading with a new by moon for guns and food, and asked for the Guardian's help in both loading the supplies in and getting it to the moon. They'd agreed to help as long as they weren't pulled into the politics of the whole mess.

Yeah, uh, the politics is kind of the last thing they should have been worrying about.

Gamora is in the _Benetar, _a quiet shadow as the rest of them trudge up the mountain (because of _course _it's a mountain), hauling supplies and trying valiantly to ignore each other. Because they are all mature adults like that. Yes.

And then Groot slips, and they all watch with a sort of fascinated horror as the crate the sentient tree was holding smashes into the ground. It would have been fine if it was bread. It was glass. It shatters on impact with the ice and there's a deafening silence before one of the Heptities lets out a wail of despair, followed by several others.

"I am Groot!" Groot tries to apologize, hauling the crate up again. "I am Groot. I am Groot!"

"Save it," Rocket hisses, "it's broken, Groot, okay? Apologies aren't going to fix that."

"I am Groot!" Groot snaps in disagreement.

"Guys, stop it." Peter commands, biting at his inner gums with a gust of cold wind bites into his face. Kriff. He still can't find any of his scarfs. Where did they _go? _It's not—Rocket and Nebula probably sold them. Ah. Well, mystery solved.

"Oh? Finally gonna step up as a leader?" Rocket's voice is heated. "News flash, Quill: you're not our mother."

Peter scoffs, making a disgusted noise. "I'm _glad. _I can't imagine a worse form of torture."

"How dare you insult my family's honor!" Drax's face pinches. He looks ready to start throwing punches. Peter leans out of the way, scowling into the snow beneath their feet. Honor. Families. Ha. Does any of this _matter?_

"I never had a mother." Mantis inputs unhelpfully, looking away from Drax. "How would being one be torture?"

Peter throws up his hands. "It was an _expression, _you _morons._ Do none of you get the idea of _sarcasm?" _

Drax makes a scoffing noise and Mantis presses her hand against her mouth, eyes wide. Has she never had someone call her stupid before? Really? That was basically Peter's adolescent nick-name.

"Guys—" Gamora starts to say, but they all ignore her. The argument breaks out in full speed almost immediately and escalators to almost ridiculous proportions until Nebula pulls out a blaster and shoots it into the air, shouting, "_SHUT UP!" _

Peter's teeth click and they all turn to face the Luphomoid with equally incensed expressions.

Nebula's face is hard. Gamora keeps trying to get their attention. The argument is about to pick up speed again, probably with more vigor, but a gun goes off and Drax lets out a breath, hand flying towards his lower stomach.

Someone shot him.

_Shot him._

Drax looks down at his hand and the smoke slowly rising up from the wound before looking up at them. "Oh." He breathes, and then everything goes south. The other Heptites break into the path, weapons wielded and firing madly at everything. The rebels really weren't supposed to know they were doing this. Or where they were. And the Heptites out of date information got Drax _shot._

"Gamora!" Peter yells into the comm, shooting into the air so he can better shots of the Heptites off of his teammates and the supplies. "Where's the air support?"

"I can't. I might shoot one of you." Gamora shouts. "This is what I was _trying _to tell you about!"

Shot.

Drax.

Peter swears under his breath. "Nebula, get Drax to the _Benetar, _now! Everyone else, form a defense around the supplies. No more shattered glass, people, we still have to deliver!"

000o000

They deliver the supplies. Barley. Apparently the open gunfire Nebula and Rocket take as an open invitation to run off on their own and leave the rest of them to struggle, even though Peter specifically instructed Nebula to take Drax. She doesn't.

Instead, he and Mantis are hauling the large warrior through the snow as he groans and bleeds through the wound. Mantis's antennas keep twitching with her anxiety and her face is twisted with pain. Peter remembers that the empathy isn't something she can turn on and off, and feels some sympathy twist in his gut. Drax's pain is her pain as well.

Peter doesn't even know how they manage to finish the mission and get everyone out alive. It kind of all becomes a blur of insubordination—gosh, he _hates _this team!—and pure luck that helps them survive.

Nebula and Rocket worked alone for five years. Peter forgets that sometimes. He shouldn't. They clearly rely on each other more than they would ever rely on the others. Peter is so freakin' _tired _of trying to act the part of leader (he never volunteered, he's just good at getting people to do things) and having people completely ignore it.

And Nebula and Rocket are perfect examples of this now.

Good to know that no one respects him here.

They leave Hepti, get Drax back to the ship and as medically stable as they can, and then stand there for a long few moments in the hospital room in silence. This is normally the time in movies when the characters will sit down, hold each others hands and have a heart-to-heart because the movie's coming to a conclusion and the director panicked when they realized they have no idea how to resolve all the conflict they started.

That is not real life.

They don't get better ratings for heart-to-hearts.

Nope. Peter's life has rarely been that simple. Instead, Mantis punches him in the face. _Mantis. _The woman who still squirms with discomfort whenever someone compliments her, refrains from violence, the one who has the social skills of a shoelace, but tries really hard to learn. Whose smile kind of looks like she's being prodded with a brand.

_Mantis._

"You have nearly killed him!" Mantis shouts as Peter staggers away, lifting his hand up to his very much bleeding cheek. Ow, that hurt. Ow, that _really _hurt. Mantis gestures towards Drax. They had to sedate him to cleanse the wound because he kept squirming and making the chances of infection worse. He barely survived.

"I—_what?" _Peter doubletakes, staring at the dark-haired woman with disbelief. "How is this _my _fault? _Groot _dropped the crate!"

"Hey!" Rocket snaps.

"I am Groot!" Groot sniffs, folding his arms across his chest.

"Drax would not have been in danger if you had listened to Gamora." Mantis says harshly, eyes narrowed. "You are never listening, Peter. Ego was the same. Always the _same!" _she moans through her teeth and begins to cry, grabbing Drax's lax hand. In some very distant, reasonable part of his mind, Peter recognizes that Mantis is just dumping the guilt she feels for yelling at Drax earlier onto him. But that realization doesn't change that she's _doing _it.

Peter's breath stutters in his chest.

He's not like Ego.

He's _not. _He can't be. He's not. He's—

Peter's hand comes to rub up at his chest where the thick, ugly scar is beneath his jacket and shirt and tries to breathe out. It's hitching in his lungs, though, as if somehow stuck. "Drax will be fine." Peter says through gritted teeth. "Please stop dumping your guilt for what happened onto me."

Rocket mock gasps, "Wow. He said "please". A miracle."

Mantis moans, looking up. "I am not guilty, you mean man! You are just—"

The comms go off, alerting them of a call. Peter's jaw tightens harshly and he scowls into the wall when no one moves and throws up his hands. "Fine. I'll get it." He storms out of the medical room and into the bridge, smashing his hand on the receiver to take the call.

"_What?" _he asks, tone hard. "You're talking with the Guardians of the Galaxy. This had better be important or—"

"Quill." That's Stark, he sounds anxious. "Shut up. Are the others with you?"

"On the ship, unfortunately." Peter grits between his teeth. He breathes out slowly, taking in a breath that really doesn't feel sincere or helpful. Why is everyone always insisting that you breathe when you're angry? It's never helped Peter. "Not on the bridge. What's the problem?"

000o000

Peter's nails are digging into his palms when he steps into the medical room. He knows that he's bleeding from where Mantis broke skin from the force of her punch, but it's kind of the least of his worries. "Nebula," Peter addresses, and realizes this is probably the first time he's spoken to her of his own free will that hasn't been on a mission. "Stark wants to talk to you."

Nebula nods and walks off.

Drax is awake now, barely, but awake. Mantis appears to be soothing him because her antennas are glowing. Gamora's head tilts. She's in pain, he can see it now that he's looking. When he stopped being willfully ignorant.

_The weight of your choice the daughter of Thanos will carry for the rest of her life._

"What's the problem?" Gamora questions.

_Us. _

_Everything._

"One of Stark's kids was kidnapped." Peter answers carefully, "Spider-Kid or something. He wants our help. Well, specifically Nebula's. I don't think that we're in a position to be doing anything other than scream at each other right now. We're really good at that."

The words hold more weight and barb to them than a sword to the gut would have. Truth always does, doesn't it?

This would be the part in a book where the characters have the "_oh" _moment and resolve their issues through a long, hard conversation that somehow magically makes everyone forget they have problems in the first place. That somehow the power of friendship will save the day and their sanity.

This isn't a book.

Peter walks off without another word.

000o000

They set course for Terra almost immediately and Nebula becomes a pacing mess of anxiety. Peter has long since picked up on the fact that Nebula views Stark as some sort of older brother/father figure, and to hear him in such distress much be worrying her. Peter never thought of her as a pacer. She paces.

Enough that even when Peter's trying to sleep he can hear her moving, and it grates on his nerves.

He pulls the pillow over his ears and tries to keep breathing. He's really only good for that right now.

They land on Terra. Nebula quickly disappears to offer the requested aid and the rest of them stay behind only incase they're needed. Drax's wound is healing swiftly. If everything stays calm he'll be healed in a few more days, probably less. At least that's _something. _

000o000

The thing that draws him from his moody avoidance of the other Guardians is a knock on his door. Gamora's. Before he can muster up a response to tell her to go away, Gamora steps into the room and the door closes behind her. She's limping.

The pain must be getting worse.

_The weight of your choice the daughter of Thanos will carry—_

"Peter," Gamora sits down on the edge of his bed, clear relief flashing across her features as the weight is taken from her legs. "Peter, will you look at me?"

"No." Peter grumbles beneath his pillow, but he's never been able to deny her anything and he submits after a few more seconds, blowing out a breath. Her face is as flawless as ever, hair tugged back into a complex braid that doesn't seem physically possible. Peter is suddenly very aware of his bedhead and the fact that he's in pajamas and hasn't showered or shaved in at least three days.

Gamora gives him one of her analyzing stares, but there's something gentle about it.

Peter flicks his gaze away. She's going to start ranting about how he's a terrible team leader and how she needs him to pull himself together because he's the "glue of the team" and he can't be struggling like this because it's offsetting their whole balance, and why can't he be less of a liability, yada yada yada.

He's heard it before. Not exactly in those terms, but the feeling is the same.

"Peter, do you know that I love you?" Gamora questions. It's so glaringly off topic that he flicks his gaze up towards her despite his quiet promise not to stare her in the eyes for the majority of this.

"Um." Peter hesitates, trying to find an honest answer. It's...it's been hard these last few weeks to really believe or see that. They've all been...busy. Gamora has been trying to repair the damage that is her and Nebula's relationship and Peter's been trying to keep the team together, so…

But after Vorimir.

After.

_After. _

"I don't know." Peter admits with reluctance. Gamora's face is blank. A sheet of white paper that reveals nothing of what she's thinking. He hasn't seen her use this face in a long time. Not since the beginning. "I think so. I want to."

The ex-assassin nods and reaches forward, taking one of his lax hands into her own. Her skin is cold, but his is warm after so much time beneath the blankets. "Peter...I know that I've been distant since this all happened. You mean everything to me, and I haven't done the best at showing that."

Peter sighs heavily and sits up, careful to keep Gamora's hand cradled in his own. "It's okay. I've been a jerk."

Gamora shakes her head. "You shouldn't _have _to be before we realize that something is wrong. We're not just a team, we're family. You've been shouldering too much of this on your own, and I'm sorry. It's time we stopped keeping secrets from each other."

Peter offers a weak grimace. He thinks it was supposed to be a smirk. "I don't know how to make toast. Like, actual toast. I always burn it. And it's so gross that you can't even—"

Gamora presses a finger against his lips to quiet him. "No. Be quiet. The others except my sister are waiting outside and when you feel ready, we're going to _talk. _I'm not going to let my family fall apart anymore."

Peter sobers. "Gamora, it's not your fault. It's mine. If I had just—"

"I lied to you." Gamora blurts out and he stares at her. "About the implant. I said that it was painless and it's not. I feel an ache below my knees all the time. My ankles swell, my toes burn and sometimes I want to claw off my skin because nothing helps the ache. I...I begged Nebula to cut off my legs a few days ago."

Peter's quiet a second, debating. The fragmented conversation makes more sense now, and he sucks on his inner gums. _Don't mess this up, don't mess this up. Don't—"_I know." Peter admits, "I heard you two talking. Just the last part. About that."

Gamora nods, though she looks oddly vulnerable.

Peter blows a raspberry. "I've been messing things up since this started. I'm sorry, Gamora. I should have chosen something else. I know that you hate me for taking your ability to walk rather than your sight or something normal that wouldn't have inhabited everything you do, and I'm such an _idiot _and a terrible boyfriend for—"

Gamora kisses him to silence him, and when she draws back a second later, her eyes are soft. "No, Peter. You chose _perfectly. _I don't regret anything...I'm glad that it was you."

Relief that's been tight in his stomach for weeks (months) releases and he exhales sharply, squeezing his eyes shut. "I love you." He offers, and the words sound awkward on his lips. Like some sort of middle school crush offering to share candy.

"I love you too," Gamora promises. "And so does everyone else. Let's go deal with this, okay?"

000o000

They fight some more, they yell, they cry, and then they make dinner, content. Nebula still hasn't returned from Avengers Tower yet, but she's kept them apprised of updates without any problems, so none of them worry too much. The food tastes terrible, bland and dry with too much salt and not enough spice, but it's the best thing he's ever had in his life.

They sit in the _Benetar's _small kitchen space, laughing and stealing each other's food. It feels...normal. Like what it used to be. There isn't a huge openness of Stark's kitchen, there isn't any New York skyline to distract them. It's just the _Benetar _and Peter's awful attempt at trying to make spaghetti.

"That was so disgusting." Rocket promises, eyes closed. Mantis is leaning against Drax's shoulder humming quietly. She has a terrible voice, but Peter doesn't think any of them have been brave enough to tell her yet.

"It was." Mantis agrees. "I have never tasted something so yuck in my life."

"I have." Drax promises seriously. "On my home world, we were required to eat the raw flesh of our first kill in order to prove ourselves men. I did not think myself brave enough to chew, but I knew I must and I braced myself for the guts to roll down my throat—"

Peter throws a stray noodle towards his face, laughing, but he's horrified. "Dude! _Ew! _Way too much information!"

"I thought that it was important for you to know!" Drax starts, pulling the noodle off his forehead and staring at it angrily before looking up at Peter contemplatively. They do not throw noodles around the kitchen because they are mature adults. (Except Groot, but whatever.)

They don't.

(They do, and Peter fears they will never completely be free of wet noodle no matter how hard they look.)

000o000

The others have gone to bed when Peter finds Nebula sitting on the landing pad of the _Benetar, _looking out at the parking lot, knees tugged up to her chest. Peter hesitates, standing there and dithering for far to long before he moves down the landing ramp and sits down next to her.

"Hey." He says stiffly.

Nebula doesn't answer. The only acknowledgement she makes of Peter's presence is a glance towards his face.

"I heard about your success with getting Spider-Kid back." Peter starts, but this is apparently the wrong topic to have started with. Her stance immediately tightens.

"Yeah." Nebula's gaze is hard. Stiff. She's spinning a blade between two fingers. It looks a lot like the one that Gamora used to carry with her with the thin, but balanced ends and the detailed hilt. Peter bites on his lower lip and wishes he'd tried to put more effort in building a relationship with Gamora's sister.

"Did something happen?" Peter asks.

Nebula huffs humorlessly, drawing out a slow breath. One finger rubs against her right wrist, but it doesn't appear to have been a conscious choice. "Am I a bad sister, Quill?" her gaze, when she looks up at him, is earnest.

Peter thinks about the death threats and the near murders. If it had been a few months (years) ago, he would have left it there. It's not. Not anymore. Now he thinks of her gentleness with Rocket and her endless patience with Gamora, how she works endlessly to understand Groot, how she knows Drax's favorite food, showed Mantis how to repair a blaster, and when she returned Peter's weapons to him after he fell.

"No." Peter answers honestly. "No. You're not. You're one of the best sisters I've had."

Nebula tilts her head, seeming confused. "I…" a sigh, and then, "I'm sorry. About everything that happened before."

"Me too." Peter promises. They sit in silence for a few more minutes. It isn't awkward. It just is.

Peter looks up at her, "Have you ever had cinnamon hot chocolate with whip cream on the top with a small smidgen of milk? No, don't give me that face. You can't be serious, 'cause, sister, there ain't nothing better than that. C'mon get up, I'll make you some."

000o000

The next mission they do is a success. Does the plan fall apart? Absolutely. Do they nearly get the kidnappee they were supposed to be rescuing killed six separate times? Yep. Mantis nearly gets stabbed and Nebula's shot in her robotic arm, but it is one hundred percent a success.

Peter's directions are actually followed. Nebula and Rocket don't group together and run off to finish the task on their own. Gamora doesn't sneak in from the sidelines and try to do more than she was asked. They work together. They listen. It's stupid how much this feels like an accomplishment.

000o000

It's been a long, frankly miserable day wandering around in freezing weather trying to dig up some sort of chest for someone, and Peter is more than happy to return to the _Benetar _with its heat. By unspoken word of agreement, they all gather inside of Gamora's room because she has a small couch and bring as many blankets as they can.

Peter prepares his magical hot chocolate drink (one of the few things he can make without giving someone kidney failure) and they huddle together, miserably cold beneath their blankets.

"I do not want to see snowfall for a long time." Drax proclaims heavily, setting his empty glass on the ground. "That was very cold."

"You could have worn a shirt." Rocket grumbles. "Like a normal person. That probably would have helped."

"I was wearing a coat, as Peter commanded." Drax defends.

"I am warm now." Mantis promises. She's stuffed between Rocket and Drax, but seems more than happy about that fact. Gamora's leaning into his side and Nebula is laying down with her head in Gamora's lap. Her face is relaxed, and Peter's pretty sure she's _actually_ sleeping.

"I am Groot." Groot grumbles, and Rocket scoffs, smacking his arm.

"What do you mean you wish you had a coat. You have _bark!" _

"Guys." Gamora says tiredly, head tipping against Peter's shoulder. "Shut up. Go to sleep. If I hear one more word from any of you the knife I have is going in the nerve endings in your thigh."

"Good night." Peter says quickly. A chorus of echoes follow, and Peter rests his head on top of Gamora's and lets himself relax. Breathe. Everything is fine. They're okay. Gamora's breathing deepens, the room quiets as everyone nods off save the occasional harsh whisper, and Peter listens to them breathe for a long time. He lets the sound lure him to sleep.

This—this is something Thanos could never take from them. He may have tried. He may have snapped his fingers and murdered half of them, but Thanos didn't take Peter's family.

It's still here. Still alive. Still an annoying pain in the butt. But one hundred percent his.


End file.
